


been said and done

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8016766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter is in trouble, only one thing can save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	been said and done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheDamnRiddler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDamnRiddler/gifts).



> Prompt: Peter gets cursed & turns feral. Only true loves' kiss can save him. Pack's like "WELP JUST GONNA HAFTA KILL HIM I GUESS". Then Stiles walks up to feral!Peter like it's nbd & kisses him & it works & he has to deal with the fallout cuz what even

“Stiles,” Scott calls after him, even as Stiles keeps his back to him, gathering up his things from the mess on the table.  “Stiles, we have to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Stiles stuffs one book into his bag, then another.

“Are you _kidding_?” Lydia is right behind Scott as they step into Derek’s loft.

They’re all wet.  It’s raining, again, and one of Stiles’ shoes is completely soaked through.  It squelches when he steps. 

 “Stiles, you can’t just expect us to ignore what just happened.” Scott insists.

Erica is wringing out her hair as she walks in, Isaac just behind her with Boyd braced next to him.  He’s got a pretty deep gash in his side from his run in with Peter.  It has been a long night; all of their shoulders are heavy, all of their movements stiff and slow.  The witch had been one thing; Peter had been another. 

The fact that they had all been ready to kill Peter, to end him before he could end someone else in his rabid state, only to have the burden of bloody hands dissipate with a single kiss had been jarring.  The fact that it had been Stiles to do it, even more so.

“I have to agree with puppy face,” Erica mutters, nose wrinkling as she shucks off a ruined boot.  “This isn’t the kind of thing you sweep under the rug, sweetie.”

“It _isn’t_ a big deal.” Stiles’ head tips back, finally going still for the first time since Derek carted Peter off back to his own apartment to sleep off the magic hangover he was certain to have. 

“It _is_.” Scott replies, stepping close, though not drawing into Stiles’ space the way he might’ve. 

Lydia crosses her arms.  “Are you sleeping with him?”

Stiles jerks around.  “ _No_.”

“Do you want to?” Erica asks.

“Ew,” Isaac’s nose wrinkles as he lowers Boyd onto Derek’s worn leather couch.  “I don’t want to think about these things.”

“I am not, nor have I ever, slept with Peter.” Stiles’ mouth turns down, lips thinning. 

“But you definitely want to.” Erica eyes him.  “Didn’t deny it because you know we’ll hear the lie.”

“Fuck you, Erica.” Stiles slings his bag over his shoulder, wincing slightly; there’s blood there and his shirt is torn. 

Kissing a wild werewolf doesn’t leave you unscathed. 

He shoves by Scott and avoids his hand when Scott goes to reach for him.  He’s halfway out the door when Boyd calls for him.

“It’s okay,” he says when Stiles stops.  “You did a good thing, Stiles.  We’re just worried.”

Lingering in the doorway, Stiles places a hand on the cool metal of the door.  It steadies him.

“It was just a kiss,” he says.

“You know that’s not true.” Lydia steps forward and falters when Stiles casts a sharp look her way.  “True _love_ ’s kiss.  Stiles—“

“It was just a kiss.” Stiles repeats, jaw flexing.  “And if Peter doesn’t remember or know or whatever… don’t tell him.”

He slams the door behind him.

* * *

 

Derek, of course, does not get that memo.  The second Peter is awake and coherent, bruised and a bit bloody from his night of raving madness, Derek is there with his eyebrows and his judgement, accusing Peter of more things than Peter’s aching lizard brain can process at first.

“What are you talking about?” he finally asks, cutting into Derek’s scolding, mostly because it makes his nephew’s eyes flare red in irritation.

“He’s barely eighteen.” Derek says between grit teeth, all agitated lines.  “How long has this been going on?”

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes only because he knows it would make his head hurt worse.  “Please, don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Stiles.” Derek snaps.  “How long have you been seeing him?”

“Well, geez, I think I tried to kill him one time when he was sixteen, so probably for a couple of years now—“

“You _know_ that is not what I mean.”

“Do I?”

Derek’s eyes seem to burn red for a long moment, but then he takes one long, deep breath.  “Peter, just tell me how long.”

“How long _what_?”

“How long have you been—“ Derek’s jaw winds so tight, Peter can hear his teeth grind.  “How long have you been sleeping with him?”

Peter blinks.  “Excuse me?”

“How _long_ have you been _sleeping_ with _Stiles_?” Derek repeats, slow and deliberate.

“I’m not.”

“Don’t _lie_.”

“ _Derek_ ,” Peter pushes to his feet, a bit unsteady, brows drawing together over his eyes.  “I am not sleeping with Stiles.”

It was Derek’s turn to blink.  “Then why--? Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing.  Nevermind.”  Derek shakes his head, waving a hand.  “It’s not important.”

“No.  Derek, tell me why you thought I was fucking Stiles.”

Derek winces.  “It’s… kind of a long story.”

Gesturing to his couch—Italian leather, brand new—he gives Derek a pointed look.  “I’ve got no other plans today.”

* * *

 

Stiles isn’t surprised to find Peter lounging over his bed when he gets home from school on Monday.  It isn’t the first time he’s come home to a werewolf making himself at home in Stiles’ space.  He plops his backpack down next to his desk, takes a seat, and spins to face his computer.

“What is it this time?” he asks.

It is even less unusual for Stiles to find Peter in his room.  It is something of a routine for them.  Ever since the Alpha Pack, ever since every other catastrophe to hit Beacon Hills after it. 

The fact that, from time to time, Peter would find himself in Stiles’ room without some terrible Big Bad looming over the horizon had simply been another move in their relationship.  Or friendship.  Or whatever.

“Swamp monster?  Deranged psychopath with an affinity for wearing white masks?  What?” Stiles twists around to look at him, and stills under the intense blue of Peter’s eyes.

There is a heady pause. 

“You’ve been watching way too many movies, Stiles.”

“Netflix is my one and only love.” Stiles chirps, turning back around.

“Oh, that’s not what I heard.”

Stiles goes very, very still.  He sits, waits, listens.  He can hear the springs groan in the mattress as Peter climbs off of it.  Then there is heat at his back, hands at his shoulders, breath at the shell of his ear.  Stiles closes his eyes and holds his breath.

“It’s a shame, really.” Peter mutters, voice a low rumble.  “That I should forget what it feels like to have your lips on mine.”

Stiles’ jaw ticks tight.  “Which one of them told you?”

“Was it a secret?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Oh, Stiles.” Peter dips down, lips just touching Stiles’ jaw.  “Why in the world would you want to hide _that_ from _me_?”

“Stop it,” Stiles shoves his hands away, standing sharply, abruptly.  “Don’t play games with me, Peter.”

Frowning, Peter catches Stiles round the waist as he tries to slip by.  Stiles just wants distance between the two of them.  Just wants that temptation that prickles along his skin to ebb. 

Peter pulls Stiles in close, body all hard lines and unyielding force.  There is no give in his hold, though Stiles does not try to break it anyway. 

“No games, Stiles.” Peter takes his jaw in hand and Stiles’ fingers still on Peter’s arms.  “You know me better than that.”

Shivering, Stiles gaze darts over Peter’s features. Searches his eyes.  “Do I?”

Expression going soft, brow easing, Peter smooths his thumb over the line of Stiles’ jaw.  Then at the corner of his mouth.  Then his lower lip.

“Say it.” Peter says.

“Say what?”

“True love’s kiss, Stiles.  That’s the only way you could stop me.” Peter’s eyes fall to the bandage still peeking out from under the neck of Stiles’ shirt.  “Say it.”

“Why?”

“I want to hear it.  From _you_.”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles.  “You want me to tell you about how much I’ve thought about you?  About how many times I pictured kissing you?  Fucking you?  How much I’ve _pined_?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say _no_ —“ Peter smiles, crooked and charming.  “But no.  Just… say it, Stiles.  That’s all I’m asking—“

“I love you.”

Peter’s breath stalls.

“Happy?” Stiles jerks back slightly, but Peter’s arm only tightens around him.  “I love you.  I love you and I kissed you because I didn’t want to help my friends kill you because you’d gone more psycho than the last time you went fucking nuts.  I’ve loved you for a long time—months, at least—and I knew it was gonna bite me in the ass but—“

Lips catch his.  The rough brush of Peter’s facial hair grates against Stiles’ pale skin, and Stiles shudders as their mouths press in something sweet and easy.  It is nothing like Stiles expected.  It is everything that Stiles wanted.

His fingers curl tight into the soft material of Peter’s sweater.  He moans, or maybe whimpers, and goes pliant against him for a long second.  Then he pulls back, eyes closed, brows drawn tight over them.

“What—What, um— _What_?”

“It’s not a one-way street, Stiles.” Peter breathes, fingers finding their way up under the bottom hem of Stiles’ shirt to the soft skin of his back.  “That’s not how that curse worked.”

Stiles swallows.  “Peter—“

“Just shut up and let me kiss you again.”

Wetting his lips, Stiles nods his head once.  Then again, more rapidly.  Then he leans in, hands skirting up Peter’s shoulders so that he can drape his arms over them and tangle his fingers into the short hair at the back of Peter’s head.  He coaxes Peter’s mouth down to meet with his and hums at the warmth he finds there.

“I love you,” Stiles breathes again, between the slow presses of their mouths, nearly choking on a laugh as Peter scoops him up off of his feet.  “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Peter hums, gazing up at him, eyes burning blue.  “Yeah, me too.”


End file.
